It's All Been Done
by OldWorldSongBird
Summary: John Watson is struggling to get a hold back on his life after the suicide of his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. He eventually makes a new friend, called Ford Prefect, and when the world ends, the pair meet a mad man in a blue box. Can they save the world after it's already gone? Rated M: Swearing, so far.


It had been three years since John Watson had lost his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. He was still in therapy, his limp persistently hanging on, and he was simply going through the motions. Needless to say, John Watson was a man who did not know where his towel was. Fortunately for John, he made a friend sometime after Sherlock's passing, a man he just happened to bump into outside a cafe. Ford Prefect, a slightly too tall gingery git, who had wit and a sense of sarcasm that was rival to _almost_ anyone John had known. Besides Ford, John only had Mrs. Hudson, his sister Harry, and Mike Stamford. Molly had left a message on her blog that she believed that Sherlock had made everything up and he hadn't seen her since. Lestrade was too awkward to be around, and John wanted nothing to with the rest of Scotland Yard, especially Anderson and Donovan. His sister, his land-lady, and his last two friends on Earth helped keep him sane in the years that followed. Unfortunately for John, that all came crashing down around him when Ford informed him in a small pub that he, Ford, was in fact an alien, and that Earth was going to be destroyed in around half-an-hour.

"John, how long have we known each other?"

"About a year and a half, give or take."

"All right," said Ford. "How would you react if I said I'm not from Guildford after all, but from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse?"

"I'd say you're daft."

"It's true. Also, the world is going to end in about half an hour."

"Now I think you're taking the piss, Ford."

"I'm serious."

"No, no, you're not. I'm calling bullshit."

"John, please, I swear it's all true. Cross my heart."

"No, it's not." John's eye twitched. Something in Ford's tone had him believing entirely that Ford was telling the truth, even if he was denying it out loud. He couldn't handle the thought of the Earth being gone in the same afternoon as trying to wrap his mind around the thought that Ford wasn't human. Reality, it seemed, had been pulled out from under his feet like a cheap rug in a bad comedy. At this point though, he at least had a few familiar things to cling to.

"John, I really mean it. Promise."

" ...Shit. It must be a Thursday, I never quite got the hang of those."

"Or Sundays."

"Ford, don't mention Sundays. Ever." John scowled at his glass as though his beverage had been the one he felt wronged by.

"... Sorry."

John knocked back the rest of his beer, wishing that he had something a hell of a lot stronger in his glass. Once outside, he gave Ford a little half-smile and said, "Seriously though, don't mention Sundays. Or I'll have you hung, drawn, and quartered. And whipped. And boiled until... until... until you've had enough." He finished lamely, then on second thought added, "And then I'll do it again, and when I've finished, I will take all the little bits and I will jump on them. And I will carry on jumping on them until I get blisters, or I can think of anything even more unpleasant to do, and then... you know, I'm starting to sound a little like Steven Moffat." He chuckled softly, shaking his head.

"Who's Steven Moffat?"

"Biggest troll in screen-writing. Don't worry about, world's going to end soon anyway, so it doesn't matter."

"Ah."

John chose that exact moment to look up, and what he saw made his jaw drop. "What the _absolute fuck_ is _that_?"

Whatever it was raced across the sky in its horrendous yellowness, tore the sky apart with a mind-buggering noise and leapt off into the distance leaving the gaping air to shut behind it a _bang_ that drove your ears six feet into your skull. Another one followed and did the exact same thing, only louder. They appeared in the sky by the hundreds, shocking the hell out of everyone watching them.

"That, as you so eloquently put it, is a Vogon ship."

The Earth stood still, well, figuratively, and a soft hiss was heard, before the most _wonderful_ (to be read hear as: horrifying) voice said, "People of Earth, your attention please. This is Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz of the Galactic Hyperspace Planning Council. As you will no doubt be aware, the plans for development of the outlying regions of the Galaxy require the building of a hyperspatial express route through your star system, and regrettably your planet is one of those scheduled for demolition. The process will take less than two of your Earth minutes. Thank you."

As the transmission ended, a wave of terror went through Earth's human populace, people screaming and fleeing, though, there was nowhere to flee.

"Oh, bloody hell. It _must_ be a Thursday." John exhaled deeply, part of him still unable to fully believe this was actually happening, though he knew it must be; he could see the spaceships looming over them.

The voice came back, only to say, "There's no point in acting all surprised about it. All the planning charts and demolition orders have been on display in your local planning department in Alpha Centuri for fifty of your Earth years, so you've had plenty of time to lodge any formal complaint and it's far too late to start making a fuss about it now."

John hardly bothered to pay attention to anything further they said. "Ford, I… I want to be beside his grave when we… when the world ends. Think I can make it if I run really fast?"

"Not if you want live."

"What?"

"Just trust me." Ford whipped a small device out of his pocket, grabbed John's arm, and pushed a button. Before John passed out, he felt like he was falling rapidly upwards through a tube, which, as any iced beverage will tell you, is not a pleasant feeling. Eventually, when he felt solid again, John roused, groaning softly.

"I brought some peanuts."

John groaned again, muttering something dangerously close sounding to 'Piss off, Ford.'

"Quit being such an ass and have some. If you've never been through a matter transference beam before you've probably lost some salt and protein. The beer you had should have cushioned your system a bit."

John wrenched his eyes open slowly, and came to a realization. "It's dark."

"Yes, it's dark." Ford sighed, marveling at the human capacity for stating the obvious.

"Thank god. I think light would kill me at this point, to be honest."

"Other than your new hatred of light, how do you feel?"

"Like I'm back in the military."

Ford said nothing, expression entirely bewildered, though John couldn't see that, it being dark and all.

"My world _literally_ just ended. It ended in another sense years ago. And just like last time, if I want to survive, I have to pick up the pieces and keep moving. Same thing in the military. Bodies all around, could be someone you know, but you just have to keep going, or you'll drown in all the overwhelming crap around you."

"Good analogy." Ford replied.

" …By the way, if I asked where we are, would I regret it?"

"We're safe."

"Oh good."

Ford chuckled humourlessly, "We're in a small galley cabin in one of the spaceships of the Vogon Constructor Fleet."

"I think our definitions of safe are _slightly _different."

A small, flickering light filled the cabin when Ford light up a match to help him search for a light switch.

John sat up and shook himself, trying to get his footing, mentally. "How did we end up here?"

"We hitched a lift."

"Because of that thing you had before?"

"It's an electronic sub-etha signaling device, technically." Ford flicked on the lights, much to John's chagrin.

"It's almost as messy as Sher- … as the flat used to be in here."

"Well yeah, this is a working ship, you see, these are the Dentrassi sleeping quarters. They don't worry much about cleaning in here, too busy working on the rest of the ship." Ford sat down on the mattress on the far side of the room.

"I thought you said they're called 'Vogon', or something."

"Yup. The Vogons run the ship, but the Dentrassis are the cooks, and_ they_ let us on board. Come sit." Ford patted the patch of bed beside him. John wrinkled his nose, but then realized that many things in the flat had often been in worse condition when he'd had to come in contact with them, and begrudgingly sat beside Ford.

"Why'd they let us on?"

"Nothing pleases the Dentrassi more than irritating the Vogons. Here," Ford said. "Have a look at this." He handed a book to John.

"What's this, exactly?" John said, looking it over, but seeing nothing other than the words '_Don't Panic'._ "Bit late for panicking now, anyway." He muttered darkly.

"It's '_The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.' _It's a sort of electronic book. It tells you everything you need to know about anything. That's its job." Ford took it from John. "Here, I'll show you how it works."

Ford pulled off the cover and a pressed a button, lighting up a small screen. "You want to know about Vogons, enter the name, and it'll pop up." He typed in '_Vogons_' and hit a button; the words _Vogon Constructor Fleet _flared in green across screen. Ford pressed a red button and a large block of text appeared, explaining exactly what kind of unpleasantness they were facing.

"Amazing. Brilliant." John grinned as he read the passage over; admiring this neat little thing and thinking Sherlock probably would have liked it. "Bit like Wikipedia, isn't it?"

"Wikipedia?"

"Never mind."

"Anyhow, it's my job to keep this thing updated and what-not, travelling the universe on less than thirty Altairian dollars a day."

"Fantastic."

"You know you do that out loud, right?"

"Sorry." John looked slightly pained.

"No… It's… It's all fine, John."

"So, the Earth really is… gone? Completely, utterly gone?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Bit upsetting, that."

"Yeah. So, you're coming with me and having a good time. The Galaxy's a fun place. You'll need to have this fish in your ear."

"What?" John blinked rapidly, feeling rather lost, as he had nothing even remotely recognizable to cling to. His friend, who was actually an alien, had just told him he needs to put a fish in his ear. There was nothing familiar or comforting in his surroundings, and he felt as though perhaps he might be able to handle things if he had something as mundane as a crisp packet to center himself, but sadly, he did not. Maybe he'd really gone mad.

The loud speaker in the room crackled and a voice like someone gargling while battling wolves came through, confirming once again for John that, no, this was real, because there was no way his brain could ever make up something that horrendous.

"What is that?"

"Shush, it might be important!"

"It's some silly twit making weird noises, how could that possibly be important?"

"John, it's the Vogon captain making an announcement on the Tannoy."

"You mean that that's how Vogons _talk?_"

"Listen!"

"But I can't speak Vogon!"

"You don't need to. Just put this fish in your ear." With that, Ford clapped his hand to John's ear, and John had the sickening sensation of what felt like a raw egg sliding into his ear. He scrambled about in horror for a moment, and then went goggle-eyed in wonder. He was still listening to the howling gurgles; he knew he must be, however, it had now taken on the semblance of perfectly straightforward English. The captain simply said that they were making the jump to hyperspace. After a moment's pause, he came on once more to announce that they were aware of the hitchhikers on the ship, they have sent out a search party, and when found, they will put said hitchhikers off the ship. If the hitchhikers were lucky, they might hear some poetry first. Once the transmission ended, John found himself curled up on the floor, and felt rather embarrassed about it. He tried to get up, but Ford shot him a look and said, "No, John, stay where you are, you'd better be prepared for the jump into hyperspace. It's unpleasantly like being drunk."

"Being drunk isn't unpleasant."

"It can be."

"Ford?"

"Yeah?"

"What this fish doing in my ear?"

"Translating for you. It's a Babel fish. Look it up in the book, if you'd like."

John never got the chance. The ship moved into hyperspace in that instant, and when it was over, John was surprised to find to find it hadn't killed him. It was a lot like drowning, moving through hyperspace. Everything pressed in on you, made you feel cold and claustrophobic, and just went you thought you were done for, a whooshing sensation slammed you back out into reality with all the harshness of an angsty, blunt, and poorly written internet post. He groaned and sat up, head swimming.

"John, I think we're in trouble."

There were footsteps outside, in the hall, and then a sharp, ringing rap on the door.

"Who is that?"

"If we're lucky, it's just the Vogons come to throw us in to space."

"And if we're unlucky?"

"The captain might be serious in his threat that he's going to read us some of his poetry first."


End file.
